


not to me

by rizcriz



Series: the i love you collection [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hope, M/M, fuck i have no idea what to tag this, i think idk it's incomprehensible trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 20:50:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18018209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: Quentins favorite color is purple.





	not to me

**Author's Note:**

> This is honestly. Incomprehensible and you shouldn't even read it. It's 4am. I'm an emotional mess, nobodies awake to tell me not to post it sooo.
> 
> Don't say I didn't warn you.

Quentin’s favorite color is purple.

It hasn’t always been, but there’s a lifetime between when it wasn’t, and now. Years upon years, and moments upon moments.

Quentin’s favorite color is purple. Not just any shade of purple, though. Not like the plums Arielle used to bring to the mosaic before she became a part of their lives. Not the pale, pastel of the magic mushrooms Eliot once found lining the river. Not even the deep royal purple of Teddy’s first girlfriends dress. It’s a particular purple. He doubts anyone else even remembers it.

Sometimes, when he’s alone, he curls up in bed and wonders if the box is still there in the Fillorian woods; even though they never really went. But if they’ve got these memories, surely it has to be. If he can feel everything that happened to him, and close his eyes and run through the very real life he and Eliot lead—then the box is almost certainly still there. Even if what’s tucked away inside is always hanging delicately in a closet in the physical kids cottage.

He remembers the day Eliot died—in that time that never really came. Long after Jane left with the key, and he wrote the letter to Margo. Long after the pain settled in his bones and in his heart. He’d made his way to the back of the cottage, dusted off the top of the box, and picked it up to carry it back over to their sad excuse for a couch. Even with all the spells Eliot cast on it, it never felt quite right. And with Eliot’s death, the spells that brought the slightest comfort faded with him. Even still, he’d sat down at the center, carefully set the box down on the table in front of him.

And then, so gently, lifted the lid and set it aside.

Quentin’s favorite color is purple. There are two shades; two different hues that manage to make him feel okay for a little while.

The first is a darker, eggplant color that lines a vest. A rough material, that holds the lines of a fold. That absorbs tears like a fucking champ. The second, is a softer, silkier fabric that mustn’t ever get wet—but is a lighter violet that catches the light and practically glimmers. This shade of purple once had a matching tie, Quentin recalls. Passed onto their son on his wedding day. An heirloom. A tradition, Eliot had said.

“We need something other than the mosaic. And every groom needs a good tie.”

Quentin’s favorite color is purple.

The purple of Eliot’s shirt and vest. The purple of their first chance at happiness and love. He knows that if the box is still there, in the cottage in the woods, that beneath the pretty purple fabric—that would probably now be old and musty, and filled with moth holes; a thought Quentin doesn’t want to think—is the outfit that he’d worn when they found themselves in Fillory.

He doesn’t know why they opted for keeping the clothes.

But he remembers that day that Eliot died. Of pulling purple from a box, and burying his face in it until all he could smell was Eliot, and all he could see was purple.

He doesn’t remember dying.

But he doesn’t remember putting the box away, either.

Quentin’s favorite color is purple. It’d been so far from his mind before today. Before finding out that Eliot’s alive—that the monster had lied to him. But now, knowing there’s a chance to save him, he feels himself reaching into his pocketing and rubbing his thumb over the dewey. Feels his free hand twitch, just enough to cast an ambiance on his room.

He doesn’t even lift his head from the pillow. Just watches as a soft, purple glow takes over—an ombre of dark and light, of wine and violet—and as the scent of cinnamon and woods and calmness fills him up.

If someone were to ask him what his favorite color used to be, he’s not sure he’d have an answer. Maybe it’s always been purple, he’d just been blind to it.

But it doesn’t matter what came before. Because his favorite color is purple, and soon he’ll be brave enough to open a box that doesn’t exist. Unfold a vest and a shirt that were never folded up. He’ll hold it out between him, and a body he knows better than his own, will look up into soft, hazel eyes. He’ll demand a second chance—of purple and violet and cinnamon and heat and warmth and—and love.

Because that’s what purple is, now.

Love.

And it's Quentin's favorite color. Because despite what he thinks he knew before; despite everything. The worlds never been quite as beautiful as it is when it's sheathed in purple. Even in the darkest hour of his darkest day. Even in the depths of his deepest despair. Tint the world in purple, and he knows everything will be okay. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> idek what i was going for in all honesty, man.
> 
> come hang out! i'm sadlittlenerdking on tumblr and i swear my writings not usually this much of a mess


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